


How to Deal with Overprotective Brothers

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hetalia Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America learns about his brother's dating life and decides to give Cuba the shotgun talk. Cuba does not oblige him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Deal with Overprotective Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on the Hetalia kink meme and then reposted to LJ May 18, 2011.
> 
> The request was Cuba/Canada, with America as the protective brother.

  
“So,” is America’s greeting when Cuba opens his door and sees that America is _standing right there._ At first Cuba tells himself that he’s doing it again—where he mistakes Canada for America, because only Canada would fly down to see him on a whim. Canada did that. Not America. America avoided him at all costs. But that kind of dipshit look on his face, Cuba thinks, really does make it seem like it’s America and not Canada.  
  
Which naturally means Cuba must up. “America, you bastard! What the hell are you doing here?”   
  
He’s even thinking of kicking America’s ass, but then he thinks that Canada would kill him for that, he resists. Not that America wouldn’t deserve it, though, damn it.   
  
America continues as if he hadn’t just been sworn at. He was probably too used to it to care much or possibly just didn’t notice it anymore. “So,” he says again. “It’s come to my attention that you’re dating my brother.”   
  
Cuba gives him the kind of _no shit_ look that Canada usually gives Cuba himself when he tells Canada that his country is, well, really damn cold in the winter. It’s a perfect deadpan and America, it seems, recognizes it perfectly and instantly.   
  
“Oh god, you are,” he says and sounds completely mortified, “I wasn’t sure if I should believe it or not.”  
  
He’s not sure what about it is the most surprising to America—that his brother and Cuba are dating, or that it’s _Cuba_ and _Canada._ He seems torn between deciding what’s stranger, so Cuba saves him the trouble:  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
“No,” America says, and even goes so far as to block the door from being slammed shut—damn his super strength—and leaning in to get up in Cuba’s face which, Cuba thinks, is stupid because that’s just asking for him to punch him hard enough to break those stupid glasses of his. He’d deserve it.   
  
“What do you want?” he sighs, and hates to relent to Canada’s brother, but it is what it is.   
  
“I’m here to interrogate you,” America says. And then adds, gravely, “I’m very good at that, you know.”  
  
“I know,” Cuba says, but rolls his eyes. He sighs out, feeling that he’s going to end the evening with a headache.   
  
America muscles his way into Cuba’s house, much to Cuba’s displeasure. He watches America stomp around like he owns the place, mapping out the entire house, undoubtedly trying to see what it was about Cuba and Cuba’s house that could be so appealing to his brother. Cuba frowns, crossing his arms, and follows after him, to make sure he doesn’t break or steal anything. He contemplates the back of America’s head and considers punching it while his guard is down, but he refuses to be dishonorable about it. Especially since America had such a thick skull, he would probably not even react to the attack.   
  
“Okay,” America says, turning around with his hands on his hips. “I’m here to protect my brother’s honor—what did you do to him?”  
  
“I’m not telling you,” Cuba says, evenly. “That’s none of your business.”   
  
America puffs up, self-important, as if he’s going to say that _yes_ , it is his business.  
  
But Cuba beats it to him. “Go talk to your brother if ya wanna know so bad.”   
  
America’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t like you dating him.”  
  
“Too bad,” Cuba says without missing a beat. “He likes it.” America puffs up more. Cuba ignores him. “If yer here to tell me to dump him, you’re outta luck.”   
  
America frowns. “You better not be getting to me through him, you know.”  
  
Cuba rolls his eyes so much that he thinks his eyes might actually fall out. “Believe it or not, my life does not revolve ‘round ya.”   
  
America’s frown deepens. Cuba wishes he would leave him alone but also wishes he’d stick around so he could continue knocking his ego down a few pegs.   
  
“Well, good,” America says, loudly. “Cause I would kick your ass if you were using him.”  
  
“I’m not,” Cuba sighs, already growing tired of the conversation. He wishes it had been Canada who randomly dropped by—they could have gone for a walk, gotten some food, had a few cigars, _something._ Now he’s stuck with his idiot of a brother who keeps glaring at him like he was some big man.   
  
But if Cuba knew anything, it was how to push America’s buttons. Ignore him when he hated it, be unaffected and undisturbed by his posturing, and, most of all, laugh in his face at the perfect moment.   
  
And he felt the perfect moment was coming.   
  
“If you break his heart, I’ll break your face.”   
  
Cuba laughs. “Okay, whatever.”   
  
Sure enough, America blisters up, face growing a little red as the interrogation most certainly does not go as he’d originally planned it to. “Damn it, Cuba! Let me interrogate you!”   
  
“No,” Cuba says, and shrugs. “I’m not in the mood.”   
  
America _almost_ pouts. Though Cuba hates him, and thinks that he’s the biggest asshole around, Cuba can admit, if only to himself, that it’s kind of sweet that he worries about Canada. Even so, he still wants to kick America’s ass and kick him out of his house. But Cuba was a complicated guy, it would seem.   
  
“Look,” America says, sighing, and actually does seem serious. “I mean it. Don’t you dare hurt him or else I’m—I’m going to kick your ass.”  
  
“Okay,” Cuba relents. He thinks that, if he ever did hurt Canada, he’d deserve to get his ass kicked by America—though that didn’t mean he was just going to lie back and take it. If America came looking for a fight, Cuba would meet him head on.   
  
“And I’m taking some of these as a reminder that you don’t fuck with me,” America says, loudly, and fists a few Cuban cigars that he has in the nice wooden box on his table.   
  
Cuba snorts and laughs again—and delights in the way America blisters.   
  
“Sure.”


End file.
